


So, You Thought You Had It Sorted

by strandedchesspiece



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Clay Spenser Whump, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, disaster clay, trent needs a holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strandedchesspiece/pseuds/strandedchesspiece
Summary: Sequel to 'So, You've Drafted Clay Spenser'Trent thought he'd covered all bases. He was wrong.
Comments: 40
Kudos: 146





	So, You Thought You Had It Sorted

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year everyone! May this next year be less crappy than last :) 
> 
> In truth, I didn't think I'd be posting in this fandom again. But, this story happened, so I decided to share it.
> 
> All mistakes are mine. Thanks so much for reading :) x

Forty-seven days; the time that had passed since the letter from Clay’s previous medic.

Trent had taken note of all advice, stockpiled the relevant items. Jason had come through with the two-month supply of take-out and beer. Things were going well.

Slowly, Trent began to feel a little less tightly wound – like he could manage the apparent medical nightmare that was their rookie. He was at the point of giving himself a metaphorical pat on the back, when, of course, things fell apart.

And it was all because of … _item number seven_.

Why the hell hadn’t he paid more attention to _item number seven_?

Probably because it was more of a mental note, rather than something he needed to add to his med kit.

But, that was always the way, wasn’t it?

Nine times out of ten, it was the seemingly innocuous things that had the ability to do the most damage …

In this case; to his face … his ribs … and every single other member of their team.

STSTSTSTSTSTST

Tripoli.

It was supposed to be an in-and-out.

Raid the house in the middle of the night, kill the bad guys, take their tech, and leave before the neighbors realized anything had happened.

Trent was front security; Jason, Clay and Sonny were upstairs grabbing laptops; Brock and Cerb were by the rear door; and Ray was perched at a third-floor window, scoping surrounding buildings for threats.

“HAVOC, this is One,” Jason’s voice crackled over comms. “That’s a wrap. Heading to exfil.”

Trent could nearly taste the cold beer waiting for him on the flight home.

“Copy that, One,” Blackburn’s voice returned. “Get out of there. See you soon.”

They didn’t need to be asked twice. Six men and a dog simultaneously fell into covering each other leaving the building.

But then there was a _crash_.

And Trent knew. He just _knew_ …

They weren’t getting out of this unscathed.

A curse came from the second floor. Some yelling. Trent leaned inside the entry, trying to see what was going on.

“ _Spenser_?” Jason’s voice called, a tight ring to the word.

“What’s going on down there?” came Ray’s clipped question over comms, assumedly as he descended from the third floor.

Sonny supplied, “Blondie decided to bypass the stairs.”

And that’s when Trent’s stomach sank.

“Trent,” Jason directed, “Get your ass to the room beneath us, see if you can find him. The floor’s given way and we’ll take a sec to get round the hole. Brock - watch the front door.”

_Oh fuck me._

Trent was moving before Jason had finished the sentence – his eyes catching Brock’s, as Bravo Five and Cerb flew down the corridor to take Trent’s position.

The room in question was a mess; splintered wood and plasterboard everywhere. Trent was grateful for his NODs, eyes roving the debris as his headlamp illuminated swirling dust.

“ _Spenser?”_ He coughed.

No answer.

Trent began to pick his way through the rubble, stomach in his throat. There was every chance that Clay was buried under all this. A bad knock to the head or neck, and there was every chance he could be dead …

Trent prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize, but right now, something horrible was tugging at him. He felt a sudden need to know that Clay was, indeed, still breathing. He cared about all his brothers equally, but this level of concern was different – and mildly alarming. Was it because Clay was still a kid? Or was it born from a desperation to rise to the challenge of keeping their newest team mate alive?

Trent wasn’t sure, exactly. But right now wasn’t the time to figure it out. Hurrying along, he filed it away for future pondering.

He found Clay’s boot (thankfully still attached to his leg) just as Jason rushed into the room. The others followed, but Trent paid them no mind as he frantically unearthed Bravo Six.

“Clay?” He threw bits of rubble to the side, shifting over so that Jason could help. “Talk to me, buddy. You awake under there?”

It quickly became apparent that the answer was no.

Sonny joined in the excavation, cursing at each piece of rubble as though it had personally wronged him, and flinging it aside with force. _Yet he claimed to dislike their rookie_.

Trent would have given the Texan grief, but he was too busy worrying that Clay had gone and got himself killed.

Once their boy was completely free of ceiling, Trent dropped to his knees by Clay’s head. Tearing off a glove, he checked pulse, respiration.

 _Oh thank God_.

“Not dead,” he reported, too busy probing at Clay’s hairline to bother with better wording.

“Can we move him?” Jason’s tone was tight, conscious of the fact they were hanging around in a place they should have vacated minutes ago.

“Bravo One, what’s your status?” Blackburn’s voice crackled.

Trent found a seeping wound along Clay’s hairline. He twisted, fumbled in his pack for some gauze (which he carried _ridiculous amounts_ _of_ – thank you Spenser). Wadding some up, he pressed it against the bleeding. Then he used his other hand to snag his flashlight, and, holding it between his teeth, pried open each eyelid.

Jason gave a sitrep.

“Concussion,” Trent announced, spitting out the flashlight.

“Fucking brilliant,” came Jason’s muttered reply. He straightened, hands on hips, feeling the time pressure. “Can we move him?” he asked again.

Trent prodded around Clay’s neck, under his vest, down arms and legs; conducting a lightning-quick assessment. Eventually he gave a clipped nod.

Jason was satisfied with that – trusting Trent without hesitation. He keyed his comms, “Let’s round this up.” Then to Sonny, “Help Trent with Clay.”

Trent managed to snake an arm behind their boy, lifting his shoulders gently off the ground.

Sonny worked the other side, bracing Clay’s ragdoll body as they gently hoisted him upright.

Clay’s head flopped forward, chin resting against his vest. It wasn’t ideal. “Try not to jostle him too much,” Trent directed.

“If he vomits,” Sonny grit, beginning to move them out of the room, “It damned well better be on you.”

Trent didn’t call Sonny out on the concern he heard lining the Texan’s gruff tone.

It was just as they were about to leave the rubble-filled room, that Clay groaned and stiffened in their grip.

And it was at that point, that Trent really should have recalled item number seven: _Concussions_.

 _‘Clay likes to throw punches when regaining consciousness. Get behind him, if you can. And warn others not to stand too close_.’

Well.

Trent barely had time to lean forward to assess his patient. He had Clay’s name partway over his lips when he was blindsided by a swift headbutt, followed by a karate chop to the ribs. The air left his lungs in a rush, and he stumbled backwards, doubling over in agony.

Somewhere nearby, Sonny let out a startled curse, and something crashed.

And then …

All. Hell. Broke. Loose.

STSTSTSTSTST

Clay pried open his eyes, his face scrunching into an immediate wince. Pain lanced through his head, and - God, his whole body _hurt_ so damned much. What the hell had happened?

Blinking away tears, the familiar ceiling of the C-17 slowly came into focus. And then the rumble of engines met his ears.

Huh.

The last thing he remembered was being in the building, getting ready to leave …

He tried to raise a hand to poke at the sore spot on his forehead, but he quickly discovered that he couldn’t move. Pushing against reflex panic, he attempted to twist to get a better look at what was going on.

He was strapped to a gurney.

Davis’ face swam into view, and she squeezed a mildly amused smile. “Apparently, the restraints are necessary,” she explained. Then she patted his shoulder. “Good to see you’re awake.”

Clay scrunched his brow, trying to piece together just what had happened.

His confusion must have been evident, because Davis supplied, “You took a dive through the floor. Got your bell rung pretty bad.”

Clay swallowed jaggedly, mouth dry. That would explain the nausea.

“You gonna hurl?” Davis asked, reading him once again.

Clay wondered briefly whether she could see inside his head. “No,” he croaked, after a moment.

She didn’t seem to buy it, pushing an emesis bag into his hand just in case.

Clay squeezed his eyes closed and took some steadying breaths, riding out the discomfort. Eventually he reopened his eyes, squinting around as much as his limited movement would allow. “Where is … everyone?” His gut told him they were further down the plane, probably enjoying post-op celebrations. “They … okay?”

A strange expression flickered across Davis’ features. Once again, there was that tiny hint of amusement. She pressed her lips into a thin line, giving a stiff shake of her head.

Clay wasn’t sure what to make of her response.

Her gaze wandered down the aircraft, and she chewed the inside of her cheek.

Clay distantly wondered why she was sitting here with him. “Where’s Trent?” he found himself asking – mainly because he’d figured the medic would be close by, but the man was nowhere to be seen

Davis released a long breath. “He’s with the others,” she replied, not quite able to keep the curl from her lips. “He’s not quite ready to see you, just yet.”

Clay frowned. _Not quite … ready_?

Davis answered the unspoken question. “Too soon,” she said, simply.

Clay blinked, unable to join the dots. _Too … soon_?

Davis leaned against the side of the gurney. She regarded Clay, her eyes lit with amusement.

Despite Clay’s questionable state, he was with it enough to feel slightly uncomfortable by the look she was giving him.

“What do you remember, exactly?” She asked, tilting her head to the side as she stared at him.

Clay swallowed roughly. His thoughts were a fragmented mess. He crinkled his brow as gently as he could. “Not … much,” he admitted, feeling awfully troubled by that fact. With a roll of nausea, he gathered the courage to ask the question that was perched on the edge of his mind. “Did … something happen … that I should know about?”

Davis huffed a laugh, unable to stop it breaking free. “Let’s just say,” she replied, drawing out the last word. “That you owe everyone a _shit load_ of beer.”

Clay felt himself blanch, seized by sudden dread. He was torn between wanting to know, and absolutely _not_ wanting to know. Eventually, he rasped, “How bad?”

Davis laughed again – which was entirely unsettling. After a moment of thought, she gave in and told him …

“You came to, before exfil, and were a little … disoriented,” she explained.

Clay already hated where this was going.

“You headbutted Trent. Possibly cracked a couple of his ribs.”

Clay gaped.

“Sonny’s wrist and nose are likely broken,” she continued. “Because you threw him into a wall.”

Oh _fuck_.

“Brock also has a concussion, and you dislocated Ray’s shoulder by slamming him into a doorframe.”

Clay’s was horrified. His heart pounded violently in his ears.

Davis paused, still seeming amused.

Clay was nearly too scared to ask. “And …” He finally managed. “… Jason?”

Davis looked like she was enjoying this way too much. “ _Jason_ ,” she repeated, ducking her head to hide her widening grin.

Clay braced, holding his breath.

Wiping her eyes and swallowing back the laughter that threatened to bubble up, she delivered the final blow. “Let’s just say … It’s a good thing he’s done having kids.”

_Oh God …_

Clay almost wished to be unconscious again.

Davis was struggling to hold herself together. “Strangely,” she giggle-sighed, “Cerb was the only one you left unscathed.”

Clay let out a broken piece of sound, his insides in knots.

“Which is probably a good thing,” Davis added seriously. “Because Brock would’ve killed you.”

Clay had no doubt. Then, much to his horror, Blackburn’s face appeared.

“Spenser,” the commander greeted stiffly.

Clay wanted to die right there on the spot. His voice stuck, and he swallowed down threatening bile, fingers twitching against the emesis bag.

Blackburn blew out a breath, regarding Clay with a strange expression. “I can’t work out,” he said after a few moments of contemplation, “whether I should be _concerned_ about what happened, or impressed.”

Clay mentally stumbled. “I’m … sorry …?”

Blackburn shot a sideways glance at Davis, mirrored amusement rippling his features. “Taking down five, highly skilled Tier One operators, whilst concussed?” He raised a brow. “Not bad, Spenser.” Then he patted Clay’s leg, chuckling lightly. “Not bad at all.”

STSTSTSTSTSTST

Bravo were sidelined for just over a month.

Trent barely slept, waking most nights in a cold sweat. He debated hunting down Simon Wentworth, but he talked himself out of it, realizing it wouldn’t achieve anything. Instead, he paced his house, randomly pulling at his hair and muttering incoherently.

Eventually, the day came for Bravo to return to work.

Trent paused at the cage room door, allowing himself a moment to compose himself.

“Trent -”

He turned to see Davis approaching, a box tucked under an arm. She gave him a smile. “Welcome back.” She held the box out.

Trent glanced at the label, before accepting it. He clutched it possessively. “Is this the strongest I can get?”

Davis quirked a lip, leaning against the wall. “Legally,” she replied with a laugh.

Trent forced a stiff nod. It would have to do. Offering a muttered thanks, he pushed the door open and entered the room.

Everyone was there, throwing around conversation.

“The band is back together!” Sonny announced cheerily, sighting Trent.

Clay was in his cage. Sheepishly, he murmured a good morning.

Trent’s steps slowed. He hugged the box of tranquilizer’s like it was a life raft. His gaze caught on the case of beer placed by his cage door, and his eye twitched. Glancing around, it seemed Clay had brought one for each of them.

“Goldilocks has brought peace offerings,” Sonny supplied.

“We’re moving on,” Jason agreed, albeit a little stiffly.

Trent drew a steadying breath, continuing the rest of the way to his cage. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside the familiar space and placed his precious box on the shelf.

Pointedly, he looked over at Clay. Their gazes locked for a moment, before Trent raised two fingers level with his eyes, turned them, and jabbed them at the kid in a silent promise.

Clay’s gaze broke away, catching the label on the box. To Trent’s satisfaction, he shifted and swallowed nervously.


End file.
